


She Sought Death

by TheDragonofHouseMormont



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Murder Mystery, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Pre-Episode: s10e01 The Pilot, Rating May Change, era appropriate sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDragonofHouseMormont/pseuds/TheDragonofHouseMormont
Summary: The Glover HouseA Safe and Quiet Retreat in the CountrysideSpace for twelve guests.  Rooms available beginning October 1st, 1940.Several years after Clara and Me run away in a Tardis of their own, Clara and the Doctor are brought together again by a mysterious summons to a quiet retreat for wealthy citizens in the midst of WWII.  Initially, they arrive separately, wanting to find out who invited them and why, but when guests begin dying one by one, they realize there might be much more at stake.





	She Sought Death

**Author's Note:**

> This won't go much into Twelve's memory loss simply because that isn't the story I was interested in telling (and there are so many great versions of that story already out there!). I wrote a very short fic once called "while collecting the stars, a prologue" about a possible way he would regain his memory, and you can read that as a prologue for this story if you'd like. I will talk about his memory loss in this fic, but it just won't be a big part of the plot.

The letter is unexpected, to say the least.

Clara and Me don’t typically get any post.  Even if their home wasn’t a nomadic American diner, most of the universe has considered them dead for a while now.  Me doesn’t notice the letter, lying flat on the ground near the door, until they’re already in flight, and she considers the possibility that it was dropped their by a customer from their last stop – the 23rd century, several lightyears from Earth – though she can’t guess why someone would, or why they would find an impossible room in an otherwise simple diner, and just leave a letter.  It’s possible that it’s a plea for help, so she opens it.  Inside the envelope she finds only a folded advertisement and nothing else.

The Glover House

A Safe and Quiet Retreat in the Countryside

Space for twelve guests.  Rooms available beginning October 1st, 1940.

Please call and make a reservation.

“That’s a bit far off,” Clara says, looking over her shoulder.  “How long has it been sitting by the door?”

“I don’t think it’s been there that long,” Me replies without turning around.  She can hear Clara’s footsteps on the glass and metal floor beneath them, heading back to the console.  Her eyes narrow as she reads the advertisement again.  “And we haven’t been to World War Two yet.”

Clara’s footsteps stop, her attention caught.  “You’re right, we haven’t.  So who left it there?  And why?”

Me finally turns around to look at her friend, joining her near the console.  “We can have the Tardis scan it for any identifying material on the small chance that the deliverer left any.”

“You think it’s a trap.”

Me shrugs.  “I think it’s good to be cautious.”

“You mean suspicious,” Clara corrects as she presses a few buttons and turns a knob.

“I mean that there’s likely to be only one sure way to find out who left this message for us.”  Me grabs a railing as the diner-Tardis makes an annoyed groan.

“We have to accept their invitation.”  Clara pulls a lever and then lets her hands drop to her sides.  “I know.  I already put in the coordinates.”

***

The room is awash in sunlight as the Doctor stands near the window.  Though he’s standing with a group of other recently arrived guests, he hasn’t said a word to any of them, taking the time to instead to listen to them.

“To believe that we won the last war only to be caught up in another one.  It’s pathetic.”  Major Aubrey Kiefer leans his weight on a cane, its handle plated in gold.  “This young generation doesn’t know how to fight a war.”

“Some might say,” Stephen Devlin interjects.  “That this war is only happening because of the last one.”  Mr. Devlin had already made it clear to the room how proud he is in his career as a journalist and his enjoyment of what he deems ‘intellectual conversation.’  “Not that I necessarily would.”

“Hogwash,” Major Kiefer grumbles.

“It’s pointless to discuss anyway,” Miss Jane Ashford says, her shoulders squared.  Her clothing is simple, but the fabrics fine.  “The fact of the matter is that we _are_ at war, and that a generation other than yours, Major, is carrying the bulk of the fighting.”

The other women sit at a table below a window on the other side of the room.  The Doctor hasn’t been able to listen to them as well, and knows that if he were to walk over to them and participate in the discussion, it would draw attention.  He isn’t ready for the attention yet.

There is an older woman, a widow by the name of Mrs. Lucinda Rose, a younger woman, Miss Hilda Brooke, who looks rather sickly, and Mr. Devlin’s wife Mary.  Miss Brooke and Mrs. Devlin appear to be deep in conversation while Mrs. Rose only watches on, her expression nearly unreadable.  The Doctor recognizes it as disinterest.

“And here come the rest of the guests,” Mr. Glover, their host announces from the door.  “I’d like to introduce Mr. Reginald Turner, Mr. and Mrs. Howard Henshall, and Miss Emma Knightley.”

It’s only at the last name that the Doctor looks up, his gaze flicking immediately to the door.  The name practically comes right out of a book, and while it may be a coincidence, his hearts are already racing.  He doesn’t see anyone behind the Henshalls at first, but as they move out of the way he takes in the form of the young woman entering after them.  Short, brown hair, large eyes.  _Clara_.

She doesn’t notice him at first, but as her eyes scan the room and its inhabitants, they eventually meet his.  He’s glad for his respiratory bypass because, in the moment, he finds he can’t breathe, can’t move.  He watches a hundred thoughts pass behind her eyes.

“Miss Knightley, wonderful to meet you,” Mrs. Devlin exclaims as she steps up to greet Clara.  The moment is broken and Clara looks away, smiling as Mrs. Devlin leads her to sit with the other women.

“What did you say your name was again?” Mr. Devlin asks him.  His slip-up has cost him his anonymity.  Mr. Henshall joins their group.

“The Doctor,” he answers.  “Just the Doctor.”

***

“I find there’s nothing more invigorating than a good hunt,” Miss Ashford says before taking a large bite out of a turkey leg.

Clara doubts she has anything to do with the invitation for this place and, therefore, the trap Clara expects to find, but she makes a mental note to keep an eye on the woman.  She’s watched everyone a great deal during the dinner so far, but none of them strike her as suspicious just yet.  Her first thought after receiving the invitation was that the likely culprit was Mr. Glover, the owner of the estate and the man whose name was on the invitation itself, but upon arriving she found him to be nothing more than what he appears.  He carries an air of false humility to cover up his sense of status that comes with owning such a large home, yet in want of money enough to open his home to wealthy strangers.  He doesn’t appear unkind, though, and treated her as a gracious host would.

Many of the guests were less gracious.  The Major, Mr. Turner, and Mrs. Rose all expressed a look of distaste if one of the women spoke for longer than a sentence or two.  The Major, especially seemed to dislike everybody, and Clara would suspect him if it weren’t for his distinct lack of imagination.

Mrs. Devlin comes across as kind enough and speaks of the students she taught the previous year with great fondness, while Mr. Devlin, who probably speaks more than anyone else present, seems rather fond of his wife.  Miss Brooke remains mostly silent throughout their meal, though listens to the different discussions with faint interest.  Mrs. Henshall is also rather quiet, while Mr. Henshall makes a joke here or there as his contribution to the conversation.

The only one out of place at the table is the Doctor, made out of place by the very fact that Clara never expected to find him here.  Is it a coincidence?  Did he receive the same invitation?  Did he _send_ it?  She considers that possibility.  The invitation might not have been a trap at all, but a way for them to meet without their meeting being noticed.  They’ve never risked meeting in person before and she can’t think of a reason that their circumstances might have changed to warrant meeting now.  But she can’t discount the possibility until she’s had a chance to speak with him.

Speaking with him is a risk all of its own, and not only for Hybrid-related reasons.  Clara is here under the name of ‘Emma Knightley’, and it’s important that she appear only as a wealthy, unmarried, young woman.  If the other guests realize that she and the Doctor know each other, they might ask questions, and if they ask questions, she and the Doctor will have to make up answers.  They’ll have to make up more lies about their respective aliases, fabricating lives and histories beyond what they have the time and resources to do.  The lies will inevitably lead to more lies, and the bigger the web gets the more likely it will unravel.

The only choice she has is to carry on as if she doesn’t know him.  She knows she’s doing a bad job of that already by avoiding glancing in his direction.  The absence of looking at him will be just as noticeable as if she stared.  Her eyes flick in his direction for a moment, but before he can catch her gaze she moves on to watch those beside him, giving no one more attention than anyone else.

“Too many women these days do not understand what it is to be ladylike,” Mrs. Rose announces.  “Women are not meant to aggressive or loud.  Too many women are trying to act like men.”

So far during dinner, Clara hasn’t said a single word.  She figures now is a good time to break her silence.  “And what do you have to say about the courageous young women helping with the war effort?  Is it not admirable to work for your country?”

Mrs. Rose stares at her without saying a word.  It’s a tricky line to walk between class and nationalism.  She’s doubtlessly given her opinion on the subject before, but Clara watches the decisions going on behind her eyes.  Too many strangers at the table, not enough assurance that she’ll be well-received.

***

After dinner the Doctor tries to pull Clara aside and ask her what she knows.  She catches his eye briefly before looking away and leaving the room with Miss Brooke and Mrs. Devlin.

It would be too telling to chase after her.

***

Clara sits in a chair near the window in a lavishly decorated sitting room.  Unlike the room in which they first entered, the windows here overlook a view of the lake.  Night has fallen and they’re so far from civilization that the only light outside is the moon, nearly full, reflecting on the surface of the water.  It’s quiet and calm, but she can see the storm clouds inching ever closer.  If the letter is a trap, this place was chosen well.  There may be a war going on that’s consuming half the world, but they may as well be in another world entirely.

A cough from the woman sitting opposite catches her attention.  “Are you ill, Miss Brooke?”

The young woman, thin and small, offers a soft smile in return.  “Please, call me Hilda.  And to answer your question, in a way, I suppose I am.  It’s grief more than anything.”

Clara wants to ask who or what she’s grieving – any information might be a piece to the puzzle of why she was invited here – but she looks almost too fragile at the moment to be pressed.  Both women turn to look at the open door as Mrs. Rose shuffles by.  The older woman glances in, and there’s no mistaking the look she gives Hilda.

“Does Mrs. Rose not like you?”  Mrs. Devlin asks from where she stands by the bookcase she’d been examining the moment before.  She walks over to them, taking a seat as well.

Hilda looks cornered.  “I don’t think it’s me she has a problem with, more that she loathes my brother.”

Mrs. Devlin looks confused.  “Who was your brother?”

Hilda doesn’t turn to look at them, her eyes on the moon.  “Harry Brooke?  He was lucky enough to be given complete exemption from the war as a Conscientious Objector.  Wasn’t that lucky though, really.  People like Mrs. Rose were horrible toward him for it.  Thought he was a coward.”

It’s hard to miss the tense she’s using.  “Was?” Clara asks, unable to stop herself.

Hilda looks straight at her for a moment before looking away again.  “He died.”

“Oh, I remember now,” Mrs. Devlin remarks before quickly dropping the volume of her voice.  “I read about it in the papers.  I’m so sorry.”  She reaches out and touches Hilda’s hand softly, consoling.

Hilda coughs again.  “That’s why I came here.  I couldn’t bear to be around the war that killed my brother for not believing in it.  Had I known that Mrs. Rose would be here, I wouldn’t have come.”  She coughs several more times, her body shaking with the effort.

Mrs. Devlin, her hand still on Hilda’s, squeezes gently.  “Why don’t I walk you back to your room?  You look like you could use some rest.”

Hilda nods, letting Mrs. Devlin help her out of her chair.  When they leave, Clara lets her eyes return to the lake outside.  Her thoughts run through the evening, evaluating each of the guests.  No one acted like they knew who her, no one seemed like anything more than what they appeared to be.  But one of them has to be lying.  There has to be a reason for the letter, a way it got into her Tardis.  There has to be a reason she was invited to this of all places.  There has to be a reason for the Doctor’s appearance as well.  Could he be behind it?

A scream cuts through the silence of the night.  Clara’s on her feet before she even thinks about it.  The scream comes again, a woman’s, and she runs in its direction, up on the third floor.

In the stairwell she knows that there are others running behind her, trying to find the screamer as well, but she doesn’t pay them any mind.  She races down the hallway, coming to a stop outside one of the bedrooms.  Turning the knob, she finds the door is locked.  Without looking to see who’s joined her in the hall, she throws her body against the door, trying to force it open.  It doesn’t budge.  When she tries again, someone pushes their body against it in time with hers and the door bursts open.  She looks up and sees the Doctor.

They run into the room, others still following behind them, and see someone standing on the balcony.  “Mrs. Henshall?”  Clara asks, striding quickly over to the woman, now sobbing, just outside the balcony doors.  She grabs Mrs. Henshalls shoulder gently and the woman points over the balcony before leaning into Clara’s shoulder and crying even harder.

The Doctor looks over the railing.  “Miss Knightley, you should have her sit down.”  It takes Clara a moment to realize that he’s talking to her.  “It’s her husband.  He’s dead.”

With Mrs. Henshall crying in a chair in the bedroom, Clara kneels by her side in an attempt at comfort while listening to the discussion on the balcony.  “The man did drink quite a lot during dinner,” Mr. Turner says by way of explanation.

“And the door was locked when we arrived,” Mr. Devlin adds.  “Unless we wish to imply that his wife pushed him, the simplest explanation is that he was overly intoxicated and fell.”

Clara hopes that Mrs. Henshall can’t hear them so quickly blaming her husband’s death on himself over her own sobs.  But she can’t deny that, with what they know, it makes the most sense.  Unless the mysterious messenger wanted her and the Doctor to investigate the murder of a rich businessman in a locked room in 1940, his death was likely an accident.

Miss Ashford and Mr. Glover enter the room, one after the other.  Miss Ashford rushes over to Clara and Mrs. Henshall, her face full of worry.  Mr. Glover joins the others on the balcony.  After a few hushed words are passed, he announces, “I will call the authorities immediately.  Doctor, Mr. Turner, Mr. Devlin, if you would please bring him inside.  It’s starting to rain.”  Clara can see the Doctor’s hesitation at moving the body before remember the era they are in and the need to blend in.  Mr. Glover turns to the three women in the room.  “You should rest.  I’ll send someone to notify you if necessary tonight, and I’ll arrange for someone to drive Mrs. Henshall to a relative’s house in the morning.”

Miss Ashford holds Mrs. Henshall’s hands in hers.  “Why don’t you sleep in my room tonight, Joan?  Come on.”

Clara watches the other two women leave the room before stepping onto the balcony.  She looks down at the ground below and at the men lifting the body.  The Doctor glances up at her, catching her eye.  Mr. Henshall’s death, she feels, isn’t something to be so easily dismissed.

***

The Doctor is lying on his bed, still completely awake, when he hears a knock at the door.  It’s been hours since the rest of the house has retired, and a mix of curiosity and anxiety lead him to answer it.  He finds Mr. Glover standing nervously in the hall.

“Doctor, I’m sorry to wake you, but I believe something more disturbing than an accident befell Mr. Henshall.  Please, come with me, I need to show you.”  The Doctor does so, apprehension in every step.  Mr. Glover leads him to the kitchen where he picks up a wire by the wall.  “The phone,” he says as he shows him the wire.  “Someone cut it.”

“I’m afraid our problems are much bigger than that, Mr. Glover.”  The Doctor walks slowly to the other side of the kitchen.  Hidden behind a counter, a knife in his chest, is Major Kiefer.

**Author's Note:**

> for those interested, this was partly inspired by And Then There Were None and the episode Foyle's War episode The Funk Hole.


End file.
